Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 670 by Angharad

After lunch, Mima and I sat down on the sofa and we both fell fast asleep. I suppose exhaustion caught up with both of us, and it was good that we’d spent some time together. I know that the younger child is usually thought of as favoured in being at home with their mother, but Mima seemed to have less time with me these days.

Stella woke me at half past two and I left Mima snoozing while I had a cuppa to wake me up. I chatted with Stella while we drank the life saving fluid, and then went off to get the girls.

I saw the Range Rover of my least favourite schoolchild’s mother. My stomach began to flip. I walked into the yard and waited for my two. There were one or two other mothers waiting and I stood on the edge of a group. There was a conversation in progress: “They say her father killed her mother, up in Scotland, somewhere.”

“What? And they’re allowing a child like that to stay here? Like father like daughter.”

I could feel the pulse in my neck twitching with anger. These people had little idea of inherited traits, and even less about the facts of the case they were discussing. There was an irony here. They were standing discussing the possibility of a child inheriting some form of sociopathic behaviour while standing next to someone, who unbeknownst to them, had already killed. I resisted the urge to tell them, because it could only be counter productive and they wouldn’t see the irony. I really didn’t need to make enemies amongst the other mothers, at the same time, I couldn’t let their whispering campaign go unchallenged.

“I’m sorry, but there is as yet no evidence to suggest anyone killed anyone else.”

“They said he’d been arrested on suspicion.”

“That isn’t quite the same as a conviction.”

“No, but, no smoke without fire, is there?”

“Isn’t there? What about carbon dioxide as dry ice, that produces a smoke like substance and there’s definitely no fire.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I? You mean maligning a five year old because of some poorly reported manslaughter charge relating to her father? Remember, half her genes came from her mother, but that doesn’t mean someone’s going to kill her, does it?”

“But it said on the telly…”

“He has been charged not convicted.”

“Are you defending him?”

“No, I’m trying to stop a whispering campaign against a delightful child who has done nothing wrong.” I saw them begin to blush.

“How do you know it’s not in her genes?”

“I’m a biologist by training, so I know a thing or two about genetics. What’s your qualification in?”

“I’m a hairdresser, why? What’s that got to do with it?”

“Nothing, I’m sure you’re a very fine hairdresser, but possibly lacking in the latest trends in the human genome project.”

“The what?”

“I think I’ve made my point.”

“ ‘Ere, weren’t you on the telly the other night?” said another woman in the group, “you made that film about rats?”

“Dormice, yes.”

“I thought so. She does know something about breedin’, she breeds them rat things.”

“Dormice,” I corrected again.

“Well them’s rodents in’t they?”

I wondered how someone with such a poor command of grammar could afford to send her child to a private school, then remembered that money and breeding don’t always go together, the Browne-Cowards being a case in point.

Thankfully, most of them had gone before Trish and Livvie appeared. Although one glance showed she’d been crying. I walked quickly up to them and put a protective arm around each of them. “C’mon, girls, let’s get home and have some ice cream.”

In the car Trish explained that Livvie had been bullied because of what happened to her mother. Maybe they were correct, the mums I’d spoken to, maybe there was some evidence to demonstrate the inherited nastiness some people have to show prejudice on an irrational level. The playground was full of it.

“Do we know who did the bullying?” I asked.

“Yes, Mummy,” said Trish.

“Who was it?”

“Petunia,” said Trish in a quiet voice.

“Petunia Browne-Cow?” I said deliberately shortening the name.

“Yes, Mummy, that is so funny,” she chortled to herself.

I was beginning to worry. Another piece of observed evidence of mother daughter inheritance. Then of course, I rationalised it. There could be some inherited behaviour, but there is almost certainly some observed and mimicked behaviour–it’s how children learn–the inheritance being psychic rather than physical. That cheered me up a little.

By the time we’d got home we all felt a bit better, and I resolved to speak with the head mistress on the Monday. I had yet to discover the date and time of the funeral, which Livvie might want to attend, and which I should anyway. Bugger, it’s such a long way away. Maybe we could fly from Southampton and hire a car at Edinburgh?

I only had enough ice cream for the children, so Stella and I had to go without until I next bought some. While the girls were eating, I filled Stella in on the fine details. She was irritated by the attitude of some people.

It meant I had to watch her the next day as well as the children. The last thing I needed was her to flip again. I wouldn’t be able to cope, I really wouldn’t.

Trish finished first–she’s a regular gannet when it comes to ice cream–practically swallows it whole. While she went up to change, I had a chat with Livvie.

“Don’t let them bully you, Livvie, especially as you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I try not to, Mummy.” I blushed and the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end. Without thinking, I nearly said, “I’m not your mother, Livvie,” but as far as she was concerned, I was, so I was pleased I hadn’t opened my stupid mouth.

We had a hug and a cuddle and after she’d cried a bit, she nodded off in my arms, so I was stuck there for another half an hour. Not wishing to waste valuable sleeping time, I followed suit and had a lovely nap.